


Hallucinating Black

by Star_Trekked



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, PTSD, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 01:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13870269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Trekked/pseuds/Star_Trekked
Summary: Since the war ended Remus Lupin has been struggling with PTSD. Nightmares and flashbacks he's used to, they're unpleasant but he's getting help. Seeing his dead best friend when no one else can? That's crazy even for Remus.





	1. The Last Stand

It was as much as Lupin could do to stand as he clutched the wound in his stomach, fighting to keep the gaping cut together as blood poured over his fingers. His hand was already covered in blood, none of it had been his own; he had attempted to save the life of Nymphadora but he had failed. Her blood now stained that failure across his arm. Other wounds covered him. None quite as serious as this. Cuts and scrapes across his arms and back, a nasty looking scrape across his face that bled heavily but was thankfully shallow. He fought his way through the smoke, barely able to see more than a foot in front of him. The sickening crunch of bones under his feet meant that he had stood on yet another corpse. Friend or foe, he could not tell. He wasn’t sure if it made much difference. He could barely tell the fighters around him apart. If they were young, barely older than 17, some not even that, it was a good bet that they were fighting against the Death Eaters. Children had come onto the battlefield straight from school, those who refused to be evacuated, often they were those who died first. Some he could not tell. Any piece of clothing that told one side from the other had long been discarded or was so covered in blood and filth that it was impossible to tell.

 

Every curse he threw was at people he recognised, members of old pureblood families, people that looked at him as if he was dirt on their shoe. Not that that was the way to tell if they were on the other side or not, most people looked down on a poor werewolf, even fellow members of the Order of the Phoenix had looked down at him, questioned his motives. There had been whispers that _The Werewolves,_ as if they were all one group, had joined Voldemort. Order members had wondered why he hadn’t joined them, on the fringes of society, creating more wolves, living in dark forests away from the rest of the Wizarding World. Truly he didn’t know, other than he wouldn’t wish this curse upon anybody. It wasn’t like society had done anything for him. He was just as oppressed, looked down upon, and unemployable as any other werewolf. He wasn’t as bitter as others though. The promises of equality and hope from Voldemort had not swayed Remus as much as it had other werewolves. He didn’t particularly blame them, he just wished they could see through the lies. They would be just as oppressed as before, only used as foot soldiers now. They were disposable. Who cared if a werewolf was dead? He could only presume that the reason he was not swayed was due to having had friends that did not care what he was, and that there were a few wizards, very few but enough, who had given him a chance. He had been employed for a whole year in Britain’s most important institution. He still had hope that there was a better future for him and those like him, without persecuting muggleborns, without the deaths of anyone who disagreed with authority.

 

That hope was the only thing that made him go on. Leaning against the castle wall, he struggled to stay upright. He pressed the tip of his wand into the wound of his stomach, whispering a few words that made the skin painfully knit together. He was no healer and the wound was deep and certainly not clean after hours on the battlefield. All he could do was hope that it would not get infected. Now was no time to rest, even if his battered body begged him to. Although he could barely see, smoke and blood, his own or someone else’s he did not know, making his eyes sting, he ran back into the fray.  He dodged curses and hexes as they came his way, some meant for him others missing their intended mark. A Death Eater he did not recognise, one of the few to keep hold of their masks baited him into a duel, flinging curses and hexes of increasing illegality and cruelty. He blocked most, dodging others. Remus gave as good as he got, silently sending back curse after curse, not thinking about how this was a fellow human being, someone who lived and breathed, had hopes and dreams, a family they loved. He couldn’t. If he had he wouldn’t have been able to send the killing curse that struck the Death Eater in the chest. The person who had just been trying to kill him was now dead themselves, just a corpse lying prone on the blood soaked ground.

 

He walked over to the corpse, and pulled off the mask. Blood clung to it, both dried and fresh, some of his curses had obviously hit their target. The fresh blood dripped across Remus’s hand mingling with the rest of the blood there, dripping off onto the ground next to where Remus had dropped the mask. It was the least he could do; see the face of the person he had murdered. He did not know if it was a kindness that he did not recognise the face. A woman, perhaps a few years younger than himself. Blonde hair in mattes of blood and dirt stuck to her face. A look of fear, with tear tracks marked on what was once a rather pretty face, marked her face. The look that would last an eternity, no chance to be happy again. It was a harsh reminder that the other side did not want to be here either. No one wanted to die like this.

 

“I’m sorry.” Remus whispered. His voice was lost in the sound of war around him. Cries of agony from the wounded and grieving, bangs and shouts from curses that flew past him, somehow not touching him despite his lack of defence.

 

He ran a hand through his hair, once more back into the fray as he sent a curse towards a man he recognised as Dolohov, trying to tempt him away from a young student. It was too late for the student, one he himself had taught just four short years ago, as green light burst from Dolohov’s wand and struck the child dead. It was unbelievable to Remus that the ground that he now fought on was once a safe haven for him. The ground his feet now pounded on as he fought for his life once held his feet as he chased his friends in the moonlight. He had been so young and carefree then, learning the mysteries of the old school, unaware that every one of the boys he played with would die. He would be the one left. Fighting for a freedom that he doubted he would live to see. They were so outnumbered. The side of the light was made up of Order members, a handful of students, and anyone they could get the word out to. Voldemort’s side was so much bigger, Death Eaters, members of the ministry, anyone who could be blackmailed or bribed into fighting for a side that did nothing but lie, torture, and kill for a man that wanted nothing but death and destruction and power.

 

Remus could feel tears making tracks down his cheeks; slight warmth a relief against the cool night air. He would die here, just like so many before him. His dear friend Tonks, Fred Weasley, his students. Pain shot through him, harsher than any other wound. His misery had made him drop his guard and now agony ripped through him. Sharp and cutting. Dolohov was grinning above him, spitting foul words that he could not hear. He could feel himself losing consciousness. A relief. His vision darkening, pain lessening. Numb.

 

He woke. There was no pain but his breathing was heavy, he was unable to catch his breath. His sheets were covered in sweat and he was shaking. He swallowed down the vomit that was making its way up his throat. A mouthful of cool water from his bedside table managed to settle him a little. He was safe. It had all been a dream. A memory.  All that he had dreamt had happened, many months ago now. It was no longer the beginnings of summer, no longer did the war rage on. It was now the beginnings of winter. A storm was brewing and from his window Remus could see the crashing waves against the sharp rocks far below his small cottage on the edge of a cliff. It was an atmosphere so different from that which he’d dreamt he could feel himself calming a little. It was over.

 

The dreams were becoming more and more common. He had hoped that that wouldn’t happen. That his memories of the battle would lessen and he would be able to move on. Yet he could do nothing but remember. Every night he would close his eyes and there they would be. The dead haunted him. It was sometimes a relief. For the seconds before they died he could see them again, alive. He’d lost so many over the past twenty years. His family, his dearest friends. The friends that remained understood, of course. They’d all had the same. Everyone he counted as a friend had been at Hogwarts on that fateful night. They’d lost people before then too. His best friends had been Harry’s parents and Godfather. He could not claim that his loss was his alone but they all seemed to be dealing with it far better. He had gone to St Mungo’s months ago, hoping that they would give him something to make the dreams go away but all they had given him was a leaflet entitled ‘ _Dealing with Death?: Desolation Restoration Draft and Other Ways to Deal with your Grief’._ Hermione had scoffed when she had seen the leaflet.

 

“They’re handing that out like it’s going to cure everyone. Really they’ve no idea how to deal with PTSD.”

 

Remus had not asked her what PTSD was, he presumed it was some Muggle thing. The more he suffered from the nightmares, the more he thought of going to her and asking. He knew she was now studying to be a Healer, and he knew she was shaking things up. He’d heard complaints about her when walking down Diagon Alley. She’d been working with Healer Pye to bring muggle cures into St Mungo’s. He’d heard the conversation as he walked past Fortescue’s one day, a group of Mediwitches and Healers had sat outside whinging about ‘Granger and her grand ideas’.

 

“Humph.” An elderly wizard with a mediwitch badge attached to the front of his robes had said, “What on Earth does any self-respecting wizard want with counselling?”

 

“I have every respect for Miss Granger, you know I do.” One Healer assured her colleagues. It was considered bad form to bad mouth any muggle born, and certainly not one who had helped Harry Potter so much. “But she’ll find that these ideas have no place in our society.”

 

Remus had thoroughly disagreed with the Healers opinion. His experience with Hermione Granger led him to believe that she was rarely wrong, and that if she thought something was worth the time and effort of changing the opinions of the entire Wizarding World then it was worth listening to her. He did not stop to discuss the issue though, instead wanting to finish his shopping as quickly as possible. In recent months it was not just nightmares that had shook him to his core, but the slightest noise, a bang or a cry, could set memories off when he was wide awake.

 

This thought, and his most recent nightmare made Remus think that perhaps it would be best to contact his former student. She was a good friend, and trustworthy enough that he thought she would not discuss his nightmares with anyone else. The muggles may even have something to cure the visions in his head. Maybe this ‘counselling’ was some sort of potion that the Muggles had created to combat that sort of thing. He knew that they had enough wars that maybe his nightmares weren’t so abnormal.

 

He cast a quick tempus and saw that it was nearing morning. Hermione had always been an early riser; an owl this early would not faze her. He sat at the desk in the corner of the room, his cottage not nearly big enough for the desk to have its own room, and penned a letter to Hermione. He would try anything, anything at all for the nightmares to go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm one of those people who use song titles for chapter titles, because it amuses me and I've found some great songs by looking up other authors favourite songs. The Last Stand is by Sabaton.


	2. Better Version

Counselling, Remus had discovered, was not a muggle potion. It wasn’t even a cure. It was help though. Hermione had sent a reply almost instantly to Remus. She had not explained how she could help, only that she could. She had owled him with a time and a place, a small room in St Mungo’s, neither a ward nor a doctor’s office. There, she gave him no potion nor performed any spell. They just sat and talked.  

 

“I want to help Remus and I think I can. The problem is I’m the only one doing this and its really better if your therapist is someone you don’t know. I’ll help you if you want me to though.” She still had not told him just how she could help, nor what the help entailed.

 

Remus was struck by how much she had changed, yet stayed the same. She was the same eager young girl, always willing to do the right thing as she had been when they first met. She was still as intelligent as ever, quick to give an answer, right far more often than she was wrong. Age and war had brought the wit and thought to her that she had lacked years before. No longer did she blurt out the correct answer as if reading from a text book. She now took her time to explain things; she had an air of intelligence and humour about her that captivated those around her. A charm she had certainly not had in her teenage years. She was aware of her age as well, and eager to have the wisdom of experience, no longer relying on what she could learn out of a book. He could not have been prouder of her.

 

As it turned out counselling was really just talking, and using different methods to deal with the nightmares and flashbacks. With help, she’d told him, he could lessen the nightmares, get a good night’s sleep, and feel less like his life was falling apart around him.

 

“It’s PTSD, Remus. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. An anxiety disorder caused by traumatic events. You’ve been through a lot, all of us have.”

 

She’d explained to him that what he was feeling and experiencing was pretty normal, and that muggles had spent a lot of time developing ways to help those who suffered. He’d told her right then and there that he was happy for her to counsel him, even if wasn’t ideal. He soon realised why she’d been hesitant. He had never bore his heart out as much as he did in their sessions, she’d seen him cry more than anyone else ever had. The first few times he had seen her socially had been awkward. A hesitant ‘hullo’, a moment of wondering whether they could be friends and therapist and client. He needn’t have worried. They were separate people outside of the therapy room. Inside the sessions he was her client, baring his darkest secrets, and most uncomfortable feelings. Outside of them he was her former teacher, and close friend, a confidant for her everyday problems and a laugh when she needed it. Hermione was bright light for him in a time that had become so difficult. Inside their sessions she helped him come to terms with everything that had happened. Outside of their sessions, she was the studious but bubbly young woman that she had always been.  The first time she had laughed with him over something that Ron had said at their regular group lunches, was the first time he realised that there was a light at the end of this dark tunnel. He was getting better and had not lost a friend to it.

 

Her counselling had been invaluable. He had felt ridiculous at first, concentrating on his breathing every time he felt overwhelmed, and he had no idea how reliving his past would help, but slowly it did. He could not pretend that his nightmares had gone away completely but they had lessened somewhat. He still woke most nights sweating, scared, and unable to catch his breath, but it took less time to realise where he was. He didn’t get the urge to grab his wand and fight. He was able to see them for what they were; horrible dreams, a leftover of years of war and struggle.

 

***

 

“Hello Remus. How are you today?” Hermione’s voice was so calm and gentle that if it wasn’t for the familiar face, Remus could almost pretend that it wasn’t Hermione sat opposite him but a complete stranger.

 

“Tired.” He replied “And scared. I don’t know why I’m scared.” It was hard to make eye contact with her. He had been anxious all day, jumping at the slightest thing.

 

“I understand.” Remus knew she did. It was the same for her as well. Not for the first time he wondered who was helping her. “A year ago today was the final battle. I’m sure a lot of people feel scared. What have you done today?”

 

Remus sighed and looked away, he was sure she would be disappointed. “I didn’t go out if that’s what you’re asking. I couldn’t. Everyone acts like it didn’t happen. They just get on with their lives. I couldn’t deal with that much noise today.”

 

Hermione nodded and gave a little smile. “You withdrew yourself?”

 

Remus returned the nod, but did not say anything. Neither did Hermione. He hated when she did this; stayed silent until he said what he felt. Sometimes he wished he didn’t need to fill the silences, waited until she cracked and moved on.

 

“Yes. I hid. I wanted to go to Hogwarts. I know a few people are going this evening.” Hermione was one of them, but she didn’t comment. “I don’t know if I can stand going there though. I haven’t been since that night.”

 

“That’s completely understandable, Remus. You don’t want to have a flashback, which is entirely possible when you’re somewhere where something so traumatic happened.”

 

Remus nodded again and sighed, he wondered if it made him a coward. It was not a thought he wished to share.

 

The end of the session came after a long while, it never felt like the short hour it was, and Hermione chose to leave the room with him, transforming from his therapist to his friend. Just before the apparition point she grabbed his hand, stopping him from going further, gently forcing him to look down so he could meet her gaze.

 

“If you want to go tonight, we can go together. It’s going to be horrible.” A tear shone in her eye, something she had not let happen in their session. “But I’m going and you can leave anytime you want.”

 

Remus thought about it for a second but shook his head. He did not want to be anywhere near Hogwarts. Too many memories haunted him there. Not just memories from the war, but memories from his own schooling there; memories both good and bad that only got more painful with age. He would have his own private memorial. One with those who had no memory of the anniversary. He knew where he wished to be this evening.

 

***

 

It was a warm evening when he apparated into Godric’s Hollow. He was grateful that he had decided to wear a thin shirt under the robes which he quickly shrunk to his pocket. The warmth of the early summer evening had brought several muggles out and he nodded at a few, thanking Merlin that they were all silent in their replies. A group of children, no more than 7 or 8 years of age, played in the distance. They were far away from the graveyard, and their laughter did not breach the imposing metal gates of St Jerome’s. He was thankful for the silence.

 

Three bouquets of flowers hung limply from his hand as he walked towards the graves. Side by side the three sat. Two of the graves protruding head stones, standing erect in the hard ground. They had sat side by side for nearly twenty years, longer than the pair had even known each other in life. Dead almost as long as they had been alive. The third, a flat gravestone that had only been laid there six months previously. Nothing lay under it, no body of the owner had ever been found.

 

_Sirius Black_

_3 November 1959 – 18 June 1996_

_A Great Man. A Greater Friend._

Harry and Remus had laid the stone themselves, months after the war had ended, many years after his death. Sirius had been his best friend, and although there had been regrets between them, both believing for a time that the other was a spy, for years Remus believed Sirius responsible for three of his friends deaths, they were as close in the two years after Sirius’s escape has they had been in their youths. Remus missed Sirius more than anyone else. James and Sirius had always been best friends but Sirius had never let Remus feel that he was in anyway lesser. It had been his idea for the three friends to become anamagi for his transformations. It had been Sirius who brought chocolate for him after every full moon. They had spent long, sleepless nights in Grimmauld Place, just talking, making up for the twelve years they had not seen each other. Remus’s heart ached for him.

 

He knelt in front of the graves. Lily’s grave was in the middle and that was where he sat, placing flowers on each grave.  Every year on the anniversary of James and Lily’s deaths he had visited their graves, the next night he would visit Peter’s, a grave that sat near his mother’s house just outside of London; a grave he no longer visited. He had never spoken before. He had always just sat there, missing them. Now he spoke.

 

“I miss you. I miss you now more than ever. I used to be grateful that I was alive. You two… you two had died so everyone else could be alive. I struggled with missing you, Sirius, but I could pretend that you being locked away was okay. Now, with you all gone, I wish I could join you. I know you’d hex me for that, James. And Sirius you’d call me a daft twat. Lily, you’d give me a hug, tell me that I was meant to live. But it’s hard. We had so little time together and you three were so special, you had so much to do with your lives but a monster like me still lives. It’s so unfair. Fate must have a sense of humour. I’d give myself up for the three of you in a heartbeat. I won’t though. I know you’d try to kill me in the afterlife if I did that.

 

“It’s been a year since the war ended. Part of me thought that his death would bring you back but it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. I want you to know though, that Harry’s doing really well. You’d all be so proud of him. He’s training to be an Auror. He got me a job as well. I’m a writer now, writing for the Quibbler. Do you remember Xenophilius Lovegood, James? He was a seventh year when we were in our first. You convinced me to charm all of his clothes bright yellow and he just smiled. Continued to wear bright yellow. Years later he still does. His daughters just the same. I think Harry’s got a soft spot for her actually.”

 

Remus laughed at the memory, only realising as a tear ran off his chin that he’d been crying for quite a while now.

 

“I’d better go now. I just wanted to remember with the three of you. I love you James, Lily, Sirius.”

 

He pressed a kiss to his fingers, and then pressed his fingers to Sirius’s gravestone. He rose, his knees cracking. He grimaced a little, he was far too young for his bones to be cracking but his life had worn on him. He supposed he’d die young, by his own hand or not. He’d outlived everyone else though. A harsh thought at 39. By Wizarding standards, he wasn’t even nearing middle aged.

 

Leaving the graveyard, he took one last look back, for a second he almost saw Sirius standing there, looking just as he had done years before. Remus blinked and the image was gone, a cruel trick played on a tired mind. He walked to his apparition point, next to a house he had visited many times in his youth, now it stood as a memorial for the friends he had just visited. His disapparation left only the sound of a sharp crack in the silent streets. Flowers and footprints the only sign that he’d ever been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from the band Shinedown.


End file.
